“Is that what happened to bring you to the meetings?”
Her expression totally shuts down. “I’d rather not talk about that right now, if you don’t mind.”
“Fair enough,” I say agreeably, taking a sip of my own drink.
After a long, tense silence, Violet speaks. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Nothing to it. No thanks necessary.”
“You were really good with him.”
“I was thinking the same thing about you.”
She smiles. “Sometimes it works better than others.”
“Was tonight a bad night?”
“No. He settled down pretty easily. This has been a great night compared to some.”
“How often do you have to do this?”
“Now? Maybe a couple of times a month. Thursdays seem to be his magical night these days.”
“Is that because you are gone to meetings on Thursday nights?”
Violet shoots me a strange look. “You know, I haven’t thought of it that way, but I guess it could be. I’ve only been attending these for a few weeks.”
“Where did you go before?” She gives me a withering look, and I put up my hands in surrender. “Sorry. Retracted.”
“I thought it would get easier for him, but sometimes I think he’ll never get over her.”
“Is that why he drinks?”
“It’s why he drinks in excess. He never went on benders when she was here. He just can’t handle life without her sometimes.”
I finally realize what I see on her face. It’s pity. And frustration. And disgust. “You think he’s weak.”
“What?”
“I just realized that you think addiction makes you weak. You think that having a weakness makes you weak.” For some reason, I’m stung by this insight into her.
“I . . . I . . .” she stammers, her expression that of a cornered animal.
“Is that how you see me? Like I’m some kind of weak person who can’t control himself?”
Her cheeks burn bright pink and her mouth opens and closes around words she can’t say. Because any explanation she gives won’t be true.
“Having a weakness doesn’t mean a person is weak. I would have thought you, of all people, would understand that.”
“It’s not . . . I just . . .”
I stand, feeling increasingly pissed off and knowing there’s not a good, rational reason to be. I just am.
“You know, Violet,” I say, setting my glass down on a coaster on the banged-up coffee table, “maybe one day you’ll come across someone or something that will make you see the difference.”
With that, I turn and walk to the door. When I look back, Violet is standing, watching me.
“What about your car?”
“I have a friend that lives near here. I’ll get him to take me to Tia’s. It’s not far.”
She says nothing as I open the door and step out into the night, and I’m glad. I don’t want her excuses. Or her sympathy. And I sure as hell don’t want her pity.
I take deep, calming breaths as I strike out down the street. I have no intention of stopping by anyone’s house. I’ll walk the whole damn way.
I don’t know what pisses me off more—that she has such a shitty opinion of me, or that I give a rat’s ass.
I remind myself why I’m even in this. I bet she wouldn’t think so little of me if she knew what kind of an ass**le I really am. She’d probably hate me, but she sure as hell wouldn’t think I’m weak.
Not that I care what she thinks of me. I can do this no matter what her personal thoughts and feelings toward me are.
And I remind myself of that all the way to Tia’s house. Every time I see that look of disgust on Violet’s face.
TWENTY-FIVE: Violet
After the world’s worst night’s sleep, all I can think about is Jet. Just like he was all I thought about last night.
Growing up surrounded by addiction in one form or another has made me a little bit jaded about both the addiction and the addict. Jet’s bitter words made me realize that I do see people with weakness as weak. Maybe because I’ve watched them hurt themselves and others without being able to stop, or maybe because they just can’t stop period. I don’t know, but Jet is right. And the way I feel is wrong.
And Jet makes me see that.
There is nothing weak about him. Although he has some issues with self-control, not once has he given me the impression that he is anything but strong. Maybe a little hedonistic, but not weak. Never weak.
I don’t consider myself weak, but as much trouble as I’ve had staying detached from Jet, as much difficulty as I’ve had keeping my rational thought processes intact, I can see how weakness might come about. And how it doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you vulnerable. And there is a difference.
I roll off the couch, ignoring the creak of my muscles. I sit up and determine that, even though Jet probably doesn’t want me around tonight, I’m going to go and watch him, I’m going to support him anyway. I need him to see that I don’t think he’s weak. I need him to see that I’m not going anywhere, that I want to help him.
Even though a big part of it now is that I just want to be with him.
Period.
After fixing Dad breakfast, heading home for a shower, cleaning my house like I’m expecting the Queen of England, and then taking another shower, I find that waiting might not be the easiest thing. So I call. Not because I’m weak, but because I need him to know how I see him.
“Yeah,” Jet answers abruptly after four rings.
“Hi, Jet. It’s Violet. Do you have a minute?”
There’s a long pause, during which I manage to convince myself that he will never want to see me or talk to me again.
But he does.
“Actually, I was just heading out.”
Or maybe he doesn’t.
“Oh. Okay. Well, I . . . uh . . . I’ll—”
“Are you busy right now?”
“No, I just . . . no.”
“I’ll be by to get you in ten minutes. Okay?”
I should probably ask why or where we’re going. But I don’t. Because I don’t care.
“Okay.”
With a click, he’s gone and my nerves are at fever pitch.
Not knowing how to dress, I choose jeans and a cap-sleeved peasant shirt in sage green. According to Tia, it makes my eyes look smoky and sexy. Why I should care whether I look sexy is not something I dwell on. I just know that I’m pleased with my reflection when I shut off the bathroom light to head for the living room to await Jet.